


Boys Wanna Be Her

by paperclipbitch



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bodyswap, Community: avengers_tables, Community: kink_bingo, Crack, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodyswap! <i>(Clint makes a mental note never to tell Nat that he realised he was inside her body by recognising her boobs.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Boys Wanna Be Her

**Author's Note:**

> Written for avengers_tables _sharing_ and kink_bingo _body alteration/injury_. No real movie spoilers, and I wish this was better than it is, but, what the hell.

There’s something wrong, and Clint knows it the moment he wakes up. It could be the fact it’s too dark in his room, or the fact his hair seems to have grown several inches overnight to fall irritatingly into his face, but it’s _more_ than that, a general sense of _not right_ beneath his skin and twisting in his stomach. He knows not to ignore that instinct that too many years have honed in him, and carefully slides his hand under the pillow for the throwing knife he keeps there; not his strongest skill, but good enough in a tight spot, and easier than trying to sleep on top of a bow. 

Only what he actually finds is a gun; a small one that fits into his hand more naturally than a firearm ever has, his fingers curling automatically around it.

Clint rolls over and sits up, pushing off the sheets and making a handful of interesting discoveries, the most important being that he is now decidedly female. Breasts, hips, vagina, the lot. He can’t tell if this is just a really, really _good_ hallucination, or if yet another one of those things no one ever trained them for has happened. Everything _feels_ real enough, as he pokes tentatively around; the calluses from the bow are gone from his fingers, and everything about him is decidedly smaller. He drops the gun into the sheets and curls his fingers in his much, much longer hair, and reflects that they were briefed for torture and mind-bending drugs and all that other shit, but nobody ever said there was a possibility they might wake up in another body entirely.

It’s scary, of course it is, but at least he doesn’t seem to be injured and his mind seems to be mostly in one piece and, well, there are worse places to be stuck, Clint reflects, poking thoughtfully at a nipple.

And then something splinters in his brain, sending ice down his spine and oh, _oh_.

(Clint makes a mental note never to tell Nat that he realised he was inside her body by recognising her boobs.)

+

Getting into clothing is actually pretty easy – the bra is problematic for a couple of minutes but Clint’s gotten kind of good at navigating women _out_ of them over the years, so repeating the process in reverse doesn’t take too long – and Clint’s just thinking that it’s pretty cool he’s ended up in Natasha’s body out of all the options available when another, much less okay, thought occurs to him.

“JARVIS,” he says and, yes, crap, that’s Natasha’s voice coming out of his mouth, “where is Clint right now?”

“He’s in his room, Ms Romanoff,” JARVIS responds placidly. “Would you like me to tell him that you wish to speak with him?”

Clint weighs his options as he pulls on a pair of Natasha’s jeans. “Nah, it’s okay, I’ll do it myself,” he says.

There’s a pause, and then JARVIS says: “...are you alright, Ms Romanoff?”

Clint swallows down a hysterical laugh, because if he loses his shit now then today really isn’t going to get any better. Fuck, but he needs coffee and someone to blame. “I have no idea,” he replies, which is probably not reassuring but is at least true.

He heads upstairs as soon as he’s dressed, because he needs to know who’s got his body. He hopes, really _hopes_ , that it’s Nat, not just because she’ll look after it, but because it’ll be better if whatever the hell this is is confined to just the two of them. The other people in the Tower are Tony, whose heart runs on glorified batteries, Bruce, who turns into a green angry giant in times of stress, Steve, who can punch people through walls without meaning to, and Thor, who can conjure lightning by sneezing. Clint thinks it would be really, _really_ great if no one ended up stranded in a body they couldn’t control. It might be kind of weird being stuck in Natasha’s body, but it could be so, so much worse.

When the door is opened by... himself, Clint has a moment of complete and utter panic, thinking a blurred jumble of _this is what being insane feels like, isn’t it?_ He sees the same expression reflected on the face in front of him, the face that he’s prodded and shaved and patched back together over the years, and knows then that, thank God, it’s Natasha in there. He swallows.

“What have you done to my hair?” he asks.

It’s strange, seeing Natasha’s favourite eye-roll on his face. “Your hair is stupid,” she tells him, swears in Russian, and then sighs: “we’re going to have to tell Fury, aren’t we.”

+

Fury... Fury doesn’t look impressed.

“You had better be kidding,” he says.

“I would _love_ to be kidding, sir,” Clint says, tipping his chair back on its legs before realising that he doesn’t quite know how to distribute Natasha’s weight to balance properly and hastily letting it clatter upright again. 

“I hire you two because despite the fact you’re psychopaths and don’t do a damn thing you’re told, you’re competent and probably the best assassins available in this country,” Fury tells them. “I expect Stark to pull this shit. Not you.”

“Director Fury, believe me when I say this wasn’t exactly how I wanted to wake up this morning,” Natasha says dryly, managing to put an edge into Clint’s voice that he’s never heard before.

“Well, me neither,” he says, feeling kind of insulted. “And how long have you been sleeping naked anyway?”

“Does Steve know you sleep in a vintage Captain America t-shirt?” Nat responds.

“Laundry day!” Clint protests.

Fury looks a lot like he wants to disembowel them both, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment like they’re giving him a migraine.

“Report to medical,” he says. “Get some blood drawn, get some x-rays, get yourselves checked for toxins or residue or whatever, and so help me, if it turns out this is infectious and it ends up involving Stark, I will have both of your asses in quarantine so fast you’ll get whiplash, understand?”

“Sir,” Nat says, while Clint doesn’t bother to hide his groan.

“Now get out of my sight, it’s too damn early for this,” Fury adds.

Well, Clint can’t deny that.

+

Phil shows up with coffee as the fascinated medical personnel are drawing their third vial of blood out of Clint’s arm, while Nat looks long-suffering as she tries to fill out an incident report with the realisation she’s now left-handed.

“I’ve brought coffee,” Phil announces, holding a paper cup out to Clint before shaking his head slightly and offering him the other cup he’s holding. He takes it gratefully, wincing as the doctor pulls the needle out of his arm and tapes a pad over the vein, and gulps down a few frantic mouthfuls. He grimaces immediately; Phil’s usually brilliant at remembering this kind of thing, but this is definitely not his usual, it’s much too sweet.

A glance at Nat reveals her pouting at her own coffee, and without saying anything they swap the cups back.

“Your taste buds are weird,” Natasha observes, taking a tentative sip of her new coffee.

Clint’s now drinking coffee without sugar, which he normally hates, but it weirdly tastes right now.

“So are yours,” he replies. It’s childish, yes, but forgivable given the circumstances.

Phil sighs, and drags up a chair.

+

When they get back to the Tower, the others are all gathered in the kitchen, looking varying amounts of worried, amused and, in Tony’s gaze, gleeful.

“You don’t _look_ any different,” Tony remarks, circling them both with a cup of coffee in one hand and a ballpoint pen in the other. 

“If you poke me, Stark, I will break your fingers,” Natasha warns. 

“She will,” Clint agrees, walking over to where there’s a fresh pot of coffee sitting on the sideboard. He pours himself a mug, fumbling to remember that he’s _right_ -handed now. “It’s been that sort of day.”

Steve is the only person in this kitchen looking appropriately concerned, which is typical. “Do we have any leads on what caused this?” he asks.

Clint shrugs. “Coulson’s going through the security footage taken from JARVIS last night,” he says. “And yes, Tony, we do now know that you have cameras in all of our bedrooms.”

“I’ll be dealing with _that_ when my feet fit in heels again,” Nat adds, while Steve and Bruce turn to look accusingly at Tony. 

Thor is continuing to look vaguely perplexed, but that’s his general expression so that’s fair enough.

“Doesn’t shit like this go down on Asgard all the time?” Clint asks him, aware of a pleading note entering his voice. “You guys are all crazy and Gods and stuff, you must’ve woken up in each other’s bodies after a night partying, right?”

Thor frowns. “Indeed we do not,” he says, but his expression has turned thoughtful.

“Well,” Tony says brightly, “well, if we just get Pep to bring back the espresso machine she banned us all from using, then-”

“No,” Natasha interrupts. “You are not all getting involved. When everyone gets involved it leads to chaos and arguments and pop culture references that we all have to take turns explaining to each other, and ends in Stark and Banner trying to fix this with poking and screwdrivers and emotional problems.”

“Hey,” Bruce says mildly.

“The emotional problems are Stark’s,” Nat clarifies, taking a mug of coffee from Clint, switching the hand she holds it with, and then making an annoyed face. She dumps two heaped spoonfuls of sugar into it, mouth twisting.

Bruce looks mollified.

“I will contact Asgard,” Thor says, standing up. “Just in case.”

Clint takes this to mean that it’s probably Loki’s fault, and that after some yelling and threatening and mild torture and possibly a small war involving aliens things will probably go back to what passes for normal around here.

Tony must realise this too, because he looks like a child who’s just had a new toy taken away from him. Clint, as one of said toys, obviously can’t sympathise.

+

Being inside Natasha’s body isn’t actually as weird as it probably should be, once Clint has gotten the hang of the peeing-sitting-down thing and has realised that boobs are slightly less fun when they’re attached to you permanently. Only slightly, admittedly, but the point still stands. He spends the afternoon in the Tower’s gym, experimenting with Natasha’s reflexes and muscle memory. Clint’s pretty spry, of course – he was in the goddamn circus, after all – but there’s something awesome about Nat’s catlike grace, about being beneath her skin as he flips over, hand over hand. He falls over a few times, misjudges a few things while finding Natasha’s centre of gravity, forgets that his dominant hand has switched, but on the whole it’s educational and kind of fun.

He finds Natasha in the kitchen, eating an absolutely giant sandwich with every sign of enjoyment while Steve stands at the cooker, flipping pancakes. 

“Hey,” Nat says when Clint looks from her to her quadruple layered snack, “it’s not _your_ dress size the internet is scrutinising.”

Clint sighs, swiping a bottle of water from the fridge. “You let that shit get to you?”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Half my job relies on my appearance,” she replies. “And, well, I work in a catsuit a lot of the time.”

Clint nods, gulping down the bottle and then shrugging: “my back hurts. Who knew boobs were so awkward?”

Steve makes a quiet choking sound.

Natasha narrows her eyes and then says: “you went for the pretty bras, didn’t you, not the practical ones.”

Clint was kind of too busy being freaked out this morning to focus on anything other than grabbing a handful of something black and lacy and then manoeuvring his unexpected boobs into it, so he just shrugs. Natasha puts down her sandwich and jerks her head towards the door. 

“Come on,” she says, and tosses a: “save some of those for me,” over her shoulder to Steve.

+

Clint’s never really had the opportunity to study what Natasha has in her closet before, but she’s got the doors thrown open wide and is giving him what is basically a guided tour.

“Stuff on the left is for undercover and interrogation work,” she explains, pulling open a drawer full of leather, silk and lace scraps of things that Clint decides he’ll have to quietly investigate later. “They are pretty, but they are not comfortable and definitely not supportive.”

There are corsets, stockings and suspenders, cocktail dresses and evening gowns and an alarming array of boots and shoes, all of which have heels of at least five inches.

“You don’t need _any of this_ ,” Natasha adds firmly, with something that sounds a little like a warning, and then turns her attention to the right hand side. “There are civilian clothes here, including decent underwear. This is a sports bra,” she continues, waving something white and restrictive-looking at him, “which you might want to use if you’re going to be spending a lot of time in the gym.”

She rummages in one of the drawers for a moment, and then pulls out something black and considerably less racy-looking than the bra Clint knows he’s currently wearing.

“You should put this on for now,” she adds. “Shirt off.”

Clint has a flash of what can’t possibly be embarrassment – it’s Natasha’s own body, for fuck’s sake – before he drags his top over his head and then reaches awkwardly behind himself to try and fumble the clasp of the bra open. It turns out to be a lot more complicated when you’re the one wearing it, and Natasha rolls her eyes, coming to stand behind him and open it for him.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” she assures him as he pulls it off, before she passes him the new one to slide up his arms.

“I’m kind of hoping I won’t have to,” he points out as she fastens it at the back.

“Well, for now, you might want to do this when you put it on,” Nat tells him, and that’s all the warning he gets before she plunges her hand into one of the cups, pulling his breast upwards to adjust the position. He feels himself gasp – the fingers are _his_ , callused and rough and masculine and as they skim over his nipple it makes his stomach twist – but swallows it quickly as Natasha repeats the movements on the other side.

“There,” she says. “That should be a _little_ more comfortable, anyway.”

It takes Clint a moment to put together a response, suddenly aware of his body in a way he hasn’t been so far, but he fumbles up a: “thanks.”

Natasha laughs softly, and snaps one of the straps against his shoulder. It hurts. It hurts a _lot_. “Jesus fuck, Nat!”

“You’ve done it to me,” she remarks, teasing, and circles him to bend down and toss him back his shirt.

Clint glares at her, watching his own face crease with amusement, and just as he thinks he’s getting used to this, he realises that it will _never stop being weird_.

It’s still not as weird as some of the shit they’ve faced, though, and that’s both kind of a relief and kind of terrible.

+

Clint wakes up the next morning in Nat’s body again; he stares at himself blearily in the bathroom mirror while he brushes his teeth, reflecting that at least he doesn’t have to shave. He pulls Natasha’s hair back, navigates the sports bra, and goes to work out in the gym.

Natasha’s already there, a bow in her hands. She isn’t using Clint’s personal bow, because they both know he’s the only one who likes to touch it, but one of the practice ones. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, and she nods in acknowledgement, eyes on the targets as she selects an arrow from the quiver on her back and slots it into the bow. Natasha’s never been very good with a bow – never needed to be, after all – on the few occasions she tried out to humour him, but now she’s working with Clint’s years of experience, and it’s strange watching himself from the outside, watching the muscles in his arms as he draws back the string, his steady hands and straight spine. The look of concentration on his face is all Nat, though; he can read her in the line of his mouth, the way her eyes are just a little narrowed.

She fires. It’s a good shot, near-perfect, but while Clint’s muscles know what to do, Natasha isn’t quite perfect, and the arrow lands half an inch to the left of the bullseye. 

“Not bad,” he says, and she shrugs.

“I was a lot worse when I started,” she replies, dismissive, already drawing the next arrow.

Clint frowns. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Your body craves a fuckload of caffeine,” Natasha responds, which is an answer, although maybe not the right one. He knows her tells but he’s not sure he knows his, and that’s a strange thought. “Stop watching, you’re putting me off.”

Clint laughs, breaking the moment, and then says: “should I be doing your morning yoga? Is that a thing?”

“I’m not talking you through my routine,” Natasha responds, loosing another arrow. Closer, but not quite. “Just pick something that won’t give me permanent damage.”

Now _that’s_ a thought. Clint turns back to look at her, frowning a little. “You’re not going to get a tattoo on my ass or anything, are you?”

“Well,” Natasha replies, “I’m not going to tell you right now if I am, am I?”

She has a point, so Clint sighs and goes to fire up the treadmill.

+

They have a firing range in one of the many below-ground levels – not the _Bruce_ level of below-ground but, hey, the Tower has a lot of underground stuff – and Clint makes his way down there. He hasn’t been there before; he prefers to be up high and in daylight, where possible, and anyway he’s never really needed to use a gun. He _can_ use one, but the whole thing feels kind of ugly and lacks class in comparison to his bow. Nat’s skills, though, lie in firearms, which means that he needs to practice. There’s no guarantee that a situation won’t arise while they’re still swapped – Thor has gone back to Asgard and hasn’t sent word yet – and while they’re technically compromised like this, he and Natasha can still be useful.

First, though, there needs to be practicing.

Clint had kind of assumed that nobody else used the range, because no one else fights with a gun, so he’s a little surprised to find Steve down there, using an old issue handgun.

“Hi, Natasha,” Steve says, like he’s used to this, and then fumbles up: “I mean, uh, hi, Clint.”

He smiles back, walking over to the locker on the wall and picking out one of Natasha’s guns. His hands know what to do, so he lets them assemble the pieces and slot in the cartridge before he walks towards the target range.

“I didn’t know you still used a gun, Cap,” he remarks when Steve’s emptied his clip.

“I don’t,” Steve replies, shrugging, but his smile is sweet and a little sheepish as he adds: “I just get nostalgic, you know?”

Clint has only tried to use the bow once in the last two days; it felt clumsy in his hands and he couldn’t draw it properly; Natasha’s strong, but she isn’t used to it, and he also found out why there’s that rumour that Amazonian archers supposedly cut one of their breasts off. It hasn’t been long, and he’s already nostalgic so, yeah, he can understand what Steve means.

“Nat knows what she’s doing, but I don’t know if I do, so, you might want to stand back,” he warns Steve on a half-grin, half-grimace, and flicks off the safety.

A handful of shots later, Clint discovers that while his aim is just a little off – the same as Natasha’s is – his hands know how to deal with the recoil, his body has perfect stance, and nothing about him flinches at the noise.

Steve’s staring at him.

“Not bad, huh?” Clint remarks.

Steve smiles slightly at him. “It’s just... strange,” he says. “Your expressions on Natasha’s face.” He tips his head, and for a moment Clint thinks Steve’s going to offer to draw him. But then the moment passes, and he returns his gun to the locker. “Have fun, Clint,” he tosses back over his shoulder as he leaves.

Clint takes a deep breath, and turns back to the targets.

+

Eventually, Clint gives in to temptation and goes into the left-hand side of Natasha’s closet. 

The next hour is pretty educational, as he experiments with the dresses and underwear in there; there’s something probably kind of weird about this, he reflects, but what the hell, Natasha has a whole load of pretty sparkly things in here and he’s currently got a body to die for. If he’s mentally collecting images of what Nat’s boobs look like pushed up inside a blood red corset, well, he’s only human.

The shoes are a whole other matter; Nat’s feet slide into them comfortably enough and he can balance in them, but walking is pretty terrifying; Clint never did manage stilt-walking and the ground is suddenly a strange distance away from him, and it takes about three seconds for his feet to start hurting. There’s _got_ to be a way to make this work; Pepper manages several hours a day on her feet in these things, while Nat has never once stumbled during an undercover op. 

There’s a knock at the door, and he scrambles to get out of the pair of black satin stilettos, chucking a sweater he liberated from his own room over the latest dress.

Nat’s standing in the doorway, slouching comfortably in a pair of Clint’s worn jeans. She arches an eyebrow in a way Clint has never managed.

“You break it, you pay for it,” she says, looking meaningfully at the heels left all over the floor.

“I’m not going to twist your ankle, Nat,” he assures her quickly.

Natasha continues to look incredulous, but all she does is sigh. “Put your weight on your heels and not the balls of your feet,” she advises, and closes the door behind her.

+

As long as the world doesn’t end, they technically don’t have a time limit to get themselves back to normal; neither of them are hurt, they can still function better than most ordinary SHIELD agents, and if they both practice with each other’s weapons long enough they can probably complete any necessary covert missions.

Clint is aware of the fact they really _do_ have a time limit, though, and it’s about ten days. He’s known Natasha long enough to learn her menstrual cycle; that’s possibly creepy, he’s not sure, but it’s always been like clockwork and he’s always known when to make sure there are emergency tampons in their kit or when to keep his mouth shut. But he has no great desire to be stuck in her body long enough to actually _experience_ her period, let alone the bikini wax Nat mentioned casually over dinner last night with a twinkle in her eye that Clint only likes when it’s his _own_ twinkle.

(“You’re shitting me,” he’d said, while Bruce buried his face in his hands and Tony looked interested.

“There’s also a leg wax, but I do that one myself,” Natasha replied serenely. “What? Being streamlined is necessary in this line of work. I shave you okay.”

Nat’s always known her way around a razor; that doesn’t count.)

There’s other things about Natasha’s body that Clint can’t control, though, and those are the really scary ones. Like when he asks Natasha if she’ll spar with him, help them both get used to hand-to-hand combat in different skin, and her mouth thins in something like worry before she refuses.

“I wouldn’t ask anyone else, either,” she says, and leaves him alone in the gym to ponder that.

It takes him a little while, but as he falls out of a handstand he finds his back bending in an unexpected way, feet curling to catch him, and Clint finally grasps what Nat meant; Natasha’s body can do a lot of things that Clint has _no idea_ about, wouldn’t know until it was too late. She’s a trained assassin; so is he, sure, but there’s more truth than exaggeration about the SHIELD rumours that Natasha can kill a man with her thighs, and Clint doesn’t consciously know how to do that but her muscles can.

He lies on his back on the mat, panting, pressing his hands into his eyes while he tries to block out the thought that sparring with someone one minute could end in a broken neck in the next, and for the first time being underneath Natasha’s skin feels like being imprisoned.

+

Three days is long enough to hold out against curiosity, of course; Thor still isn’t back from Asgard, while probably means that Loki _has_ done something, otherwise he’d be back empty-handed by now. So it’s been three days and Clint is pretty sure this is going to get turned back at some point, and until that point, well, there are some questions he wants answered.

He locks the door, dims the lights, and tries not to feel like an idiot as he stretches out naked on Natasha’s bed.

It’s been a while, but things like this don’t change, and Clint knows how to get Nat off from the outside, so it can’t be that difficult to modify it for using now. It’s still a little weird reaching between his legs only to find an opening where there definitely shouldn’t be, but he closes his eyes and concentrates his breathing and just goes for it. He knows how vaginas work, knows how Natasha’s works pretty damn well, and after a moment of fumbling he manages to stroke her – his – clit just right, and the shock of it is kind of incredible.

He tilts his hips, looking for just the right angle, sliding slippery-wet fingers through his folds while he keeps thumbing his clit, thinking about the amount of pressure that Natasha likes, using his other hand to cover a nipple and then twist it. He can hear himself breathing too hard, and he sounds like Nat, and that’s kind of weird but not bad either, and he pushes down into his sliding fingers, concentrating on the sparks of heat and what feels good, what feels _right_ , and the quick, shallow orgasm that sweeps through him and leaves him breathless is kind of incredible. 

Clint keeps stroking himself until he becomes too sensitive, then lies back and waits a moment, listening to his hammering heart, watching his heaving boobs and their hard nipples, smelling sex – smelling _Natasha_ – and thinking, _whoa, okay, fucking hell_.

He starts again a few moments later, sliding two fingers inside himself and groping for his g-spot; Natasha helped him find it in the past, his thicker, rougher fingers twisting inside her while she gasped and gritted out instructions, but now he’s mostly flying by what feels good, what makes his stomach twist and his heart hammer. And this is _good_ , this is _amazing_ ; he can feel every press of fingers to his clit through his whole body, a heat spiralling from his cunt through his limbs, through his chest, and his movements are getting frantic, urgent, as he flattens his feet on the bed and lifts his hips and searches for just the right angle.

This time, when he comes, it’s blinding, stunning, lingering, and it’s all he can do to remember to keep touching himself throughout it. Coming as a woman is _incredible_ ; he knows it’s more complicated than jacking off as a guy, knows that he’s got a cheat-sheet to masturbation here from already being familiar with Nat’s body, but, _fuck_ , he doesn’t know how women can get anything done when they can make themselves feel like this with a little work; make themselves feel like this over, and over, and over again.

Clint twists onto his side, pressing his fingers deeper in this new angle, and buries his face in the sheets.

+

“Oh dear God,” Natasha mumbles when Clint walks into the kitchen for dinner that evening.

Bruce takes one look at him and immediately swallows laughter, while Steve’s cheeks flush.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t tried it,” he says, keeping his attention on Nat.

“I did,” she replies. “Of course I did. You, however, spent... three hours?”

“Maybe four,” Clint allows, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs. His cunt is sore now, but he doesn’t even care; his whole body feels frail and holy and wrung-out with pleasure, and he can take anyone’s teasing right now.

“I think Beyoncé wrote a song about this exact situation,” Tony observes, getting bottles of beer out of the fridge.

Bruce has his head in his hands, so it’s impossible to tell if he’s laughing or crying or if it’s some combination of both.

Clint looks expectantly at Steve, but he just shrugs. “I know who Beyoncé is,” he protests, sounding defensive.

It’ll do for now. Clint accepts a bottle of beer and shifts in his seat while Nat looks vaguely despairing – despair’s an interesting look on him, Clint muses idly – and Tony sniggers to himself as he taps away at the screen of his phone. Clint gets the feeling this is going to end up in whatever incident reports they all have to fill out when this is over – _Clint fucked himself into a frenzy once he discovered just what the whole ‘multiple orgasms’ thing really meant_ – and he can’t even bring himself to care.

+

Thor arrives back in a lightning storm the next afternoon while Clint and Nat are explaining to Phil that they could probably handle that situation brewing in Helsinki even like this, while Phil looks unimpressed and absolutely refuses. 

“We’ll have the element of surprise,” Natasha suggests.

“No,” Phil says. “And also no. Absolutely no.”

“I bet Fury put you up to this,” Clint murmurs, before he starts trying to work out if batting Nat’s eyelashes will help any – yes, he already knew how to apply eyeliner and mascara, no, he’s not going to talk about it – or if he should try unbuttoning his shirt a little.

Thor sweeps into the room, all flowing hair and raindrops and sparkling armour, and announces: “Loki has agreed to undo the enchantment!”

Natasha lets out a long breath of relief, Phil whips out his phone to call SHIELD, and all Clint can manage is a murmur of: “your fucking brother...”

Still, the idea of waking up in his own skin tomorrow is a good one, and he decides to save the bitching for when he’s got his dick back. He’s missed the little guy.

+

Natasha turns up in his room a little before midnight, and says: “if you want to do it, it should probably be now.”

They haven’t had this discussion, of course, but then they haven’t needed to. They’ve worked together long enough, known each other long enough, that some things don’t need suggesting, don’t need talking about. Sometimes, they’re just on the same wavelength. There’s no need to point out that this is probably all a little weird or a little narcissistic; it’s also something they’re both curious enough about that it kind of does need doing.

Natasha’s taller than him now, stronger than him now, and her hands come up to cup his face as she kisses him. There’s the slightest scrape of stubble, and for the first time Clint learns what he smells like, and it’s strange but not repellent as he opens his mouth into the kiss, sliding his tongue into Natasha’s mouth. He slides his hands up her spine – all strong masculine muscles, shifting shoulder blades, thin t-shirt – and rakes his nails through the back of her short hair, sucking on her tongue in the way he knows feels good and this... this is all a little weird, but they know how to get themselves and each other off, so technically, new sensations and role reversal aside, this should be kind of simple.

“Been a while since we had a bed to do this in,” Nat remarks against his mouth, her voice low and hungry, a rumble Clint feels through her chest. She’s hard already, he can feel against his stomach, and the thought sends a bolt of heat to his groin. 

“You don’t want to fuck me against a wall?” he asks, tipping his head back so Nat can trail bruising hot kisses down his throat, finishing at the sensitive area where his neck meets his shoulder. He shudders, digging nails into Nat’s back, other hand grabbing her ass to pull her closer.

...his ass is really grabbable. Clint makes a mental note of that, because, well, what the hell, and hears a moan that’s nothing like any sound he’s ever heard Natasha make spill out of his mouth. She laughs into his shoulder, pulling away enough to tear his shirt over his head, large hands coming up to cup his breasts. He pushes into her touch, nipples hard and rubbing against the inside of his bra, and Natasha raises an eyebrow before she reaches around to undo it, pulling the straps down over Clint’s shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Her hands against his bared breasts are electric, rough but gentle, drawing little teasing circles around his nipples while Clint pants and his cunt twitches and Natasha finally, finally leans in to take one of his nipples in her mouth.

The feeling is shocking, and Clint swears; Natasha responds with a scrape of teeth, sucking a little, and Clint can’t breathe, can’t think, his mind trapped somewhere between the heat of her mouth and the way his cunt his throbbing, his panties growing wet.

“Nat,” he chokes out, “fuck, Nat, please-”

She draws back, smirks at him, and then closes her lips over his other nipple, sucking and biting and Clint recalls the time when he’d do this to her for long, drawn-out half hours while she twisted and mewled underneath him, and he wonders how she ever stood it. He already wants to explode, twisted up and horny and desperate for her, and the flood of familiar and new sensations is almost suffocating.

Natasha pulls back before he can ask again, panting and clearly not dealing particularly well with her own arousal, dropping a hand down to adjust where she’s hard against the seam of his jeans.

“This is going to be the fastest and worst sex we’ve ever had, isn’t it,” Clint remarks, taking advantage of the fact Nat’s no longer touching him to shuck his pants and take a step closer to the bed.

“Probably,” she agrees, “but, well, they said the spell wouldn’t break ‘til morning.”

Clint backs up until his legs hit the bed and he sits, watching Nat strip out of his clothes. It’s still a little strange, looking at his own body and being this turned on, but it’s been a fucked-up few days and there’s never been a time when he hasn’t wanted Natasha, never, so there’s no reason he should start now even if it’s his skin that she’s in.

“You sure you want to do this?” she asks one last time, pulling his briefs over her hips and grabbing at her cock with a shaky hand, stroking a couple of times like she just can’t help herself.

“If you’re not fucking me in the next few minutes I think your body might die,” Clint says earnestly, and is rewarded by her laughter.

There’s condoms in the nightstand – thank you, Tony – and it takes both of them to put one on Nat, their hands shaking and fumbling and generally making a mess of something they’re usually good at, and Clint draws Nat into a lingering kiss when they finally manage it, biting at her lower lip and scraping nails over her scalp.

“Come on,” she whispers, pulling away, “come on, fuck, _Clint_.”

Her hands steady his hips as he straddles her, thighs spread, and while his fingers felt great the other day he has no idea what this is going to feel like, what he’s supposed to do. Nat smiles at him and he realises that she’s equally in for something different, and at least they’re in this together, so he wraps a hand around her cock to help him line it up, stroking the head against his clit a handful of times before he finally sinks down.

While part of him feels nervous and virginal, Natasha isn’t, and her body accepts his cock easily, as long as he goes slowly. It’s strange and a little unnerving at first, but as Clint meets Nat’s wide eyes and sees that she’s also lost in a completely impossible sensation it starts to feel better, as he slides carefully down, taking inch after inch of her cock. When he’s finally fully seated they take a moment just to breathe, before Nat says tightly: “I know you have stamina, but I don’t know if I do.”

That’s a thought, and maybe something they can test later when they’re less frantic, when Clint doesn’t feel like he might fall apart if he doesn’t come soon, and he rests his hands on Nat’s shoulders.

“Right,” he says, like this is a mission like any other, one they can complete together.

“On three?” Nat asks, a sardonic twist to her mouth even though he can feel just how hard she is inside him.

Clint leans in to kiss her, sharp and swift and biting, before he presses his knees into the mattress and starts to rise, pulling himself off her cock. It’s torture as it slides out; he sobs out a breath, clenching, and Natasha swears in Russian. He’s over it feeling weird now, over being confused by brand new anatomy, and all he wants is _more_ , Nat as deep inside him as possible. He slams back down hard enough for it to hurt and it’s perfect, as Natasha grabs his hips and thrusts upwards. They manage a rhythm; messy, uneven and frantic, Clint twisting his hips as he tries to find just the right angle, Natasha’s fingers leaving bruises on his skin as she fucks up into him, teeth scraping his throat, breathing jagged and wanting.

One of Natasha’s hands slides between them and Clint cries out as she presses a thumb into his clit, giving him something to push into, grind against, and he can feel a telltale unravelling heat in his stomach. 

“Please, _fuck_ , Nat,” he breathes, and she rubs him faster, shoving her cock deep into him and then staying still as he tips over the edge, burying his face in her shoulder and groaning as he comes, hot and dark and overwhelming.

When he comes back into himself he finds Nat is still moving; little urgent jerks of her hips into his oversensitive cunt, but he can feel from the way her fingers are sliding against his hip and how erratic her thrusts are that she’s going to come any second. She mangles a half-dozen words of Russian when she does, and he closes his eyes as she pulses inside him, at once too much and not enough.

Clint wraps a hand around the base of Natasha’s cock to help keep the condom in place as he carefully pulls back, letting her slip out of him as she softens.

“Round two in a few minutes?” she says, as he flops into the sheets, cunt tingling with aftershocks and breath still catching in his chest.

“Absolutely,” he agrees, watching her tug off the condom and drop it into the trashcan she keeps near the bed.

Nat looks thoughtful, and after a moment she says scornfully: “you have an actual physical _need_ for cuddling after sex, don’t you?”

She’s frowning down at her body like she can glare the want out of her. 

“Hey,” Clint protests, not one to take a slight to his awesomeness lightly, “not all of us had the need for physical affection brainwashed out of us at an early age.”

Nat rolls her eyes, smacking his ass. “Come on,” she says, “let’s test my recovery time.”

+

Clint wakes up in the morning with a warm body pressed against his side and... and with morning wood.

He didn’t think he’d miss it, but as it turns out he really _has_. Careful not to wake up Natasha, he reaches down between his legs and wraps a hand around his cock.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Welcome back.”

“Men and their dicks,” Natasha mumbles, arching to stretch out her back. “Having one isn’t that special, you know.”

Clint keeps his hand where it is. “Don’t listen to her,” he says.

Natasha arches an eyebrow, and it’s good to see that expression back on her again; Clint’s face tried its best, but really couldn’t carry it off.

“If you’re waiting for me to cup my breasts and refer to them as ‘girls’ then you’re going to be waiting a long time,” she warns him, pushing herself upright. “I’m going to need so much yoga.”

“Remember that everything you’re feeling you did to yourself,” Clint tells her, and then grimaces. “Wow, that’s weird.”

There’s a crash from downstairs, which doesn’t bode very well.

“I bet it gets Stark and Fury this time,” Clint says, because he’s not above schadenfreude by any means.

Nat tips her head to one side while she considers this, and then she breaks into a grin.

“Here’s hoping.”


End file.
